‘When will you kill him?’
Canning caught Aranfal’s gaze for the briefest of moments, and the Watcher saw a spark there: the light of life. But it quickly expired, and the former Tactician’s head slumped forward once more.
Shirkra hesitated. ‘Kill him?’ The shadows in the cell grew longer. ‘That would be a kindness. I am not cruel, you know. I like my games, but I am not cruel. Still – I cannot kill him – no, I cannot.’
‘Why not?’ Aranfal stepped towards her. ‘You are the Mother of Chaos. Who can stop you from doing anything?’
Shirkra snatched her mask from her face. She giggled like a young girl, her hand held before her little mouth. ‘You seek to trick me into bringing his death, Aranfal! You think it would be a kindness, hmm? I see through your tricks. If I kill him, you know, I will be in such trouble, because Mother loves him, hmm? She thinks she sees something in this creature, though what it is, I cannot tell.’
She turned upon Canning.
‘But then again – trouble. Hmm. What would happen if I got in trouble? Real trouble? Would it not be a bit … fun to get in trouble with Mother? I haven’t been in trouble with Mother for ages, you know. I’ve been so good all this time. It’s nice when you get in trouble with Mother. It shows she cares, ha ha ha ha ha!’
Aranfal laughed, though he did not know why. The longer you serve her, the more you become her. Everything is a cloud of nothing, and only laughter breaks it.
‘We should do it together, Aranfal!’ Shirkra was beside him, wearing her mask once again.
Chaos is making a plan, making it forever, abiding by it, building the rules, and then twisting in a new direction, a different way, hmm, without knowing where it will take—
She held his hand in hers. ‘Imagine, both of us getting into trouble with Mother! And Jandell would be so angry, too, wherever he may be – you told him you would look after Canning, hmm? I don’t need any powers to know that, ha ha. I know what he’s like. “Oh, promise me, Aranfal, promise me, hmm, won’t you look after my little child, who withers in the den of the vipers, hmm?”’
Aranfal looked to Canning. It’s true, it’s true, she knows you so well.
Children.
Another voice, from nowhere and everywhere.
The Strategist.
Come to me.
**
Aranfal was in the Underhall.
This was the largest room in the See House, as far as anyone knew, a vast cavern of damp stone, broken portraits, and rotten wooden furniture. It was said to be the dining hall of ancient Tacticians, before they grew tired of feasting in the Bowels. But no one came here, now.
Shirkra was at the back of the hall, her ear pressed against a wooden door that festered with mould. She was no longer wearing her mask. She called Aranfal to her, and beckoned him to do the same.
A thin, reedy sound came from beyond.
‘Music,’ he said. He looked at Shirkra, who nodded once, and giggled.
‘Why are we here?’ the Watcher asked. ‘How did we get here?’
Shirkra grinned at him. ‘Mother has summoned us. Didn’t you hear her?’
Aranfal nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘One must come promptly when summoned by Mother.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘It’s stupid to do anything else. Mother is very patient, you know, very patient, but it’s not good to test her, oh no, not good at all.’
The Watcher was afraid. He was Aran Fal.
‘Have you met Mother before, Aranfal, hmm?’
‘No. At least, not in her new guise.’
‘Ah. You knew her host.’ Shirkra giggled. ‘It will be so lovely to see you together! I love both of you so much!’
They walked through the door, and found themselves in a corridor. There were torches along the walls, burning in that strange flame of Strategist purple. As they went, a light grew before them, a tempest in the same colour.
The environment began to change. The corridor faded away, and the air became wet and cool. New sounds intermingled with the strange music: the movement of leaves in the breeze, a dappling of water on rocks, weird chirps and chirrups of animals.
‘Where are we?’ Aranfal asked. ‘It feels like we’ve gone outside. How can that be?’
Shirkra tutted. ‘Your questions are born of the Overland. We are not in the Overland, my Aranfal.’
Aranfal looked up and saw a bright moon, a perfectly smooth and circular body that radiated a cold intensity.
‘That was not here before,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’
‘A memory. Many memories. Woven together, made more beautiful than before, oh yes.’
They came to a garden. Aranfal saw a wide, dark pond up ahead, its surface a perfect reflection of that unnatural moon, its waters utterly still. Black plants surrounded the pond, tall things with dark, glossy leaves and pale, pink flowers. Animal sounds could be heard in the dark, but there was no sign of bird or beast.
Sitting on a rock and staring into the pond was the Strategist. Katrina Paprissi. The One. Mother. Always Mother, always call her Mother. She was dressed in her purple rags, her pale skin exposed to the moonlight, her black hair tied tightly back with an ivory pin. She held in her hands a long, thin, wooden instrument: the source of the strange music. It was a lament. It told a story of a time long gone, though no one sang along to it.
At her side was a mask: the face of a white rat.
Mother cast a glance in their direction, and removed the pipe from her lips. The music died slowly, echoing through the garden. The Strategist tilted her head very slightly, and placed the tip of her tongue on her upper lip, as if tasting something there.
Aranfal bowed to her.
‘The Machinery is broken,’ the Strategist said. Her words had hints of Katrina, but there was something more besides, as if several speakers were talking at once in voices from the past.
Aranfal hesitated. ‘Yes, Strategist.’
Mother did not seem to register his words. ‘The Machinery is broken. It must be. It Selected me, and gave me such powers. But Ruin has still not come. There is more work ahead of me.’ She sighed. ‘I must find what remains of the Machinery. I must shatter it into a million pieces. Only then will Ruin come.’ She placed the instrument to her lips once more, and music filled the garden. After a while she removed the pipe. ‘Ruin is waiting for me.’ She looked directly at Aranfal. Her gaze penetrated him. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Mother,’ Aranfal whispered.
The Strategist nodded. ‘I am Mother.’ She looked at Shirkra. ‘You sought to disobey your mother.’
Shirkra shook her head. ‘No. No. I would not have killed him. I think I would not have.’
‘You think, but you do not know. You are not the Mother of Chaos. That is the wrong name for you. You are a child of Chaos, and nothing more.’
Shirkra sighed. ‘I am a child. I am a child. I cannot tell what I will do.’
Mother called her daughter to her side, and made her sit on the rock. ‘You stayed with me during many long years. You are more than Chaos. You are … light.’
Shirkra grinned.
‘Torturer.’